


The Portrait of Ichabod Crane

by m0usielous1e



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Art, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, F/M, Gen, Heist, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Humor, Mills Militia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-14
Updated: 2015-11-14
Packaged: 2018-05-01 13:03:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5206898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/m0usielous1e/pseuds/m0usielous1e
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An eighteenth century privilege threatens to expose Ichabod Crane's true heritage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Portrait of Ichabod Crane

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there! *waves* So after months of lurking (or was it years?) I've finally joined AO3. So happy to be here. This I have posted elsewhere but minor corrections were made so, pretend its like brand new okay?  
> Like seriously though, given Crane's character bio thus far, how has this not come up?

Holy shit, it was Crane. Abbie froze, spoonful of wanton soup halfway to her mouth, eyes wide and stared at the screen. Blissfully ignorant, the news anchor continued, _“…the painting, which was recently donated to the British Museum by a private collector is now on loan to the Tarrytown Museum of Colonial History. Captain Crane arrived in this country in the 1770s as a Lieutenant of the British Forces, but joined the Revolutionary Army under General Washington, before dying in battle sometime in 1781.”_

Abbie snorted at that, then set her spoon down and grabbed the remote to raise the volume. The report had switched to a pre-recorded segment showing the white-haired Benjamin Franklin-wannabe who curated the Tarrytown Museum. He and the female reporter, a tall, slim blonde who had clearly drawn the short straw on this assignment, were standing before the painting of pre-Revolutionary soldier Crane. As they do, the reporter looked smitten.

Abbie looked at the painting again as the camera panned over it. Still Crane. Same high aristocratic forehead, same clear blue eyes, gaze piercing, and same arrogant smirk that sometimes made Abbie want to smack him or at least bite off that goddamn finger. He was in full eighteenth century Oxford professor garb, or so she supposed with the powdered wig and black robes, quill in hand. Someone had hit the genetic jackpot. Fortunately, the universe, that great equalizer, had also made him proud. Abbie could just hear Crane preening once he found out about the exhibition and felt the exhaustion flooding her bones.

The camera switched back to the curator who was saying, _“Captain Crane did not rise very far in the ranks or accomplish any great feats for the Revolutionary Army but I consider him an intriguing figure for his background. Imagine this: an aristocrat, second son of a baronet, Eton-educated, former Oxford professor travels to the Colonies as a member of His Majesty’s Forces. This is a man that by all rights should remain in that force. He served under General Howe, of Manhattan burning fame, but then inexplicably defected to join a cause he ended up dying for in obscurity. Now this is hardly a unique story, it continues even today. We have lost many souls under similar circumstances but what makes things really interesting for this museum is that he reportedly lived somewhere in this area before he died.”_

_“So what you’re saying is that he may be buried somewhere in the area?”_

_“I can’t say for sure, but that does seem plausible, yes.”_

Well shit. Crane was out right now, with Zoe at the commemoration of some historical event or the other so it was safe to say that he had no idea that this was happening. But this was something happening in his community, he _had_ to know about it. Of course, that was not what Abbie was really worried about. Though she, Hawley and Jenny had done much towards giving some substance to any background checks into Crane’s documentation, any investigator worth his salt was for sure going to see through the holes in their cover story. And now there was this.

 _“He was also quite a looker, wasn’t he?”_ asked the reporter, giggling at the portrait.

Abbie rolled her eyes and she did not miss the exasperated sigh in the curator’s voice when he replied, _“Yes, he has accumulated quite the fan following among some members of staff.”_

Abbie mentally sent him her condolences, then her cell buzzed and she answered without looking at it. “Mills.”

 _“Holy shit, Abbie!”_ Jenny exclaimed on the other end.

“I _know_ ,” said Abbie, still staring at the screen. The camera swept over Crane’s smirking face again. She had to give it to the artist, even given the tendency to flatter the subject (something that had not changed over the years, hello Photoshop) it was a remarkable likeness.

 _“Ichy sure knows how to make a suit look good…in fact, he’s too good for that cheap frame they slapped on his painting,”_ Jenny continued. _“Did you know about this painting?”_

“No,” Abbie admitted, watching as the curator directed the reporter to other items on display, also on loan from the British Museum, which had belonged to Crane and his family at the time. There were small wooden and porcelain toys, a set of quills and inkwell, a child’s shirt and a tiny pair of shoes.

 _“Damn, and I see the reporter has also caught Crane-itis,”_ said Jenny after a moment.

Abbie rolled her eyes again and said, “That exhibit is going to be real popular. I might have to get him a new quill set for all the autographs he will be signing…maybe make myself his manager for the modelling campaign.”

 _“Yup…so what do you want to do about it?”_ asked Jenny.

“What?” Abbie asked as the report finally ended and they switched back to the anchor and, surprise, surprise, even she was blushing. Good God.

 _“About the painting. That’s going to be a problem,”_ said Jenny.

Abbie lowered the TV and went back to her soup before replying, “Nothing, it’s just a painting, Jenny. People who see it will just assume that Crane’s his descendant or something and ignore it.”

_“True, true…or perhaps, people like a certain FBI Agent Boss of yours might finally decide to take a closer look at Crane’s credentials and the next thing you know, you’re in jail and Crane’s off to some ‘blacksite’ for ‘debriefing’.”_

Abbie paused, once again with her spoon halfway to her mouth, and considered it. Sure Crane got away with a lot on account of her badge and the fact that he was a six-foot-one, blue-eyed white guy with a British accent, aka least likely to be suspected of wrongdoing. But Crane also tended to irritate people, especially men with the power to ruin him and he was certainly unapologetic about it. Worse, he and Danny had not exactly hit it off when they first met. Hell, all it would really take was a phone call and a few pointed questions at the Jeffersonian and Armageddon would have to be put on hold while Abbie tried to spring her fellow Witness from her former employers.

“Crap. Yeah, we’ve got to do something about that painting,” said Abbie, dropping her forehead into her palm.

 _“Great, so what do you want to do?”_ asked Jenny.

“You’re asking me?” asked Abbie. “I thought you had a plan Miss ‘We’ve Got to Do Something About that Painting’?”

There was a pause and then Jenny replied, _“You already know my plan.”_

Abbie did. She did not have to think too hard to figure out that Jenny was suggesting they steal it. She said, “We can’t steal that painting, Jenny. Do you know how serious Art Crime is?”

_“Not as serious as regular crime. Certainly not as serious as keeping your fellow Witness with a capital ‘W’ out of the hands of the wrong people. I don’t think the Hessians are all gone you know.”_

Abbie groaned and said, “I can’t believe I’m actually going along with this.”

 _“Eh, don’t worry about it, making that painting disappear is going to be a cinch. Small town museum like that is not going to have state-of-the-art security or tech. In fact, you could probably just run up and grab it and go and never get caught,”_ said Jenny.

Abbie felt a chill in her spine that raised the pores along her neck, shoulders and arms, a primal sense of danger, and she said, “Jenny, stop. This is not a conversation we should be having over the phone.”

 _“Pfft,”_ Jenny snorted, and then, _“Sure, okay, over in twenty.”_

She hung up immediately and Abbie threw her head back onto the cushions. Goddammit, could Crane not get into some kind of trouble for five minutes? She knew she should have had that GPS chip installed in his leg at their last trip to the doctor’s office.

 

Jenny arrived with beer, a shit-eating grin and Joe Corbin. Abbie took one look at the two of them, laughing with each other about something or the other from the car ride over, and as soon as Joe was out of earshot—dispatched to the kitchen to put away the beer—cornered Jenny and asked, “How long?”

“How long what?” asked Jenny with a raised eyebrow.

Abbie studied it for a moment, noted the surprise and mild confusion and said, “Nothing. So, Little Joey Corbin’s the getaway driver now?”

“Yes, and don’t call me that,” said Joe, returning from the kitchen.

“What, did you expect to run all the way back here with the painting?” asked Jenny, lifting the other eyebrow. “No, I grab the painting and Joe drives. You’ve got to be here with a solid alibi in case Agent Danny decides that you are a criminal after all.”

Nope, Jenny had not gotten over that yet. Abbie neither.

“It sounds too easy,” said Abbie. “Nothing should be that easy.”

Jenny scoffed, “ _Please_ , who goes to museum’s most days? Kids on school trips and old people…and the occasional re-enactor/Revolutionary/Civil War buff. None of those people are really going to steal anything because they expect that they are being watched. The only reason they’re showing Crane’s portrait so much is because they’re hoping to pull in the lonely and desperate—wow, I just thought of people getting off on Crane’s pic, ew—and they are definitely not going to pull off a heist. This is going to be like taking candy from a baby.”

“And what are you going to do if they do have security?” asked Abbie.

“Don’t worry about it, Agent Mills. In fact, the less you know about what happens next, the better for you,” said Jenny. “The bigger issue is what we’re going to tell Ichy.”

“Nothing,” said Abbie at once, firmly.

She received two wide-eyed stares in response and waving them off, said, “Yeah, yeah, I know he’s going to find out anyway, but then he’ll want to see it and by that time the painting is supposedly to be safely gone.”

“Hey, you know, he would be really happy to find himself on display among the men he worked with. It was not as if his work could have been publicly acknowledged at the time,” said Joe.

Abbie nodded and replied, “Yes, I know, and it sucks but we cannot allow it to be acknowledged now either. If they find out our secret, he’s going to wish they just chucked him back into Tarrytown Psych.”

“I think the bigger problem is going to be the aftermath. With all this attention on the painting, when it disappears they might just launch a manhunt…or your boss is going to come after us again,” said Jenny.

Abbie could see the merit in that and said, “I’ll take care of Danny, you just focus on…whatever it is you’re going to do to make that portrait disappear. Know that you should not have it anywhere near either of your houses or mine, or the Archives either because for sure they’re going to search us.”

“Yes, yes,” said Jenny. “I know. Don’t worry about me, Sis. I’m a big girl, I can take care of myself.”

Abbie scoffed and replied, “It’s not you I’m worried about. I kind of want to keep my job.”

Just then the front door opened and Crane walked in, head down, gaze distant, cheeks lightly flushed. Abbie was immediately struck with a thought. The pose he had struck in the painting—quill in one hand, long scroll in the other, rolling over onto the nearby table that had been piled high with various thick books, one foot ahead of the other, and smirk on his lips as he stared directly out at the viewer—was rather distinct. While Crane could excuse, poorly but perhaps plausibly, handwriting similarities as a matter of genetics, that pose was too damn familiar. God _dammit_ Crane.

“Heya, Romeo,” said Jenny.

Crane started and swung round to look at them. They smiled back, Jenny waggled her fingers. Crane straightened, bowed and said, “Leftenant, Miss Jenny, Master Corbin, good evening to you. Forgive me…I was distracted.”

“I’ll say,” said Jenny, shit-eating grin back in place. “How was your date?”

“It was…nice,” said Crane, though his tone struggled to match the sentiment. Still conflicted about dating Zoe when he had only just lost Katrina less than a year earlier. Maybe there was something to this whole “three years of mourning” thing in the Victorian era, though Abbie was not sure she could handle Crane in all-black all the time.

Abbie gave her sister a pointed look. Jenny acknowledged it with a nod and then said, “We can see that. Second base?”

“Jenny!” Abbie exclaimed. Why had she even bothered? Joe just snorted.

“What?” Crane asked, confused.

“Don’t worry about it,” said Abbie, grateful for once that he had not caught the reference. Or maybe he was still lost in thought. “In fact, these two were just leaving.”

“We were?” asked Joe.

Jenny did not bother, she stood up at once and pulled her keys from her pocket. “Let’s go Joe, we’ve got stuff to do.”

“Oh? Relic-hunting?” asked Crane, genuinely curious, his gaze focusing for the first time since he came through the door.

Abbie snatched up the remote and switched off the TV. The stupid station was showing the painting segment again. What the hell was wrong with them? Had the Tarrytown Museum bribed them or something?

“Yup, nothing we can’t handle though,” said Jenny, her tone light, cheerful and a little mischievous. She was entirely too good at this, Abbie thought, it was completely unfair.

Crane nodded at this and saw them to the door. Abbie dropped her head back into the cushions again and considered her options. While she was at it she needed a plan to keep Crane out of the loop too. No way was he going to help them steal his painting, in fact he might try to stop them.

The house was quiet with Jenny and Joe gone, though they had only been there a few minutes. Too quiet really, especially nowadays with Crane often out with Zoe. Why the hell had she bought such a huge house again? Well, the floors were nice and then there was that nice spot over the fireplace where they could hang Crane’s painting…what the hell was wrong with her? Where had that stupid thought come from?

“Leftenant?” asked Crane, close by.

Abbie opened her eyes to find him peering down at her from behind the couch. Jenny and Joe were long gone and Crane had that odd, conflicted look on his face again. Abbie could not for the life of her figure out his problem. Katrina was long dead and gone, Jeremy too, and both of them had tried to kill him multiple times. Zoe was fun and genuinely interested in him. Hell, if he played his cards right, she just might be his ticket to public office…or not, nope, not with that accent. Instead of replying, Abbie yawned and then stood up, stretched and said, “Whew, goodness, I’m exhausted. Going to bed. Long day tomorrow.”

“Leftenant?” asked Crane again.

Abbie fought the urge to let him vent. It was the same conflict he had had the last time and at this point, it was best to let his big old brain work it out for him. She patted him on the arm on her way out of the room and said, “You can tell me about your date tomorrow. So tired. Goodnight.”

She did not wait to hear his reply and he did not say a word.

 

“Hey, Abbie, can I see you in my office?” asked Danny, peering out the door.

Abbie, on her way back to her office immediately changed directions and tried to suppress the chill in her spine. The last time he had called her in here it was to accuse her of being in collusion with relic smugglers, the asshole. So yeah, her sister had a criminal record and the people they were talking to were bad guys and then there was the whole “Hudson Valley Historical Society” thing with Crane, but Danny should have trusted her. She had never lied to him about anything, omitted stuff, yeah, because what she and Crane got up to was nobody’s business, but still.

“You wanted to see me?” asked Abbie after she settled into the chair before his desk. She kept to the edge though, in case she needed to shoot out of it to clock him in the head…or rather, leave.

Danny took a seat on his desk, clasped his hands together and slapped on that smile that still made Abbie a little weak in the knees. The chill became cold fury. No way, there was simply no _fucking_ way….

“Hey, Abbie, listen, I know last time…well, I’m sorry about what happened. I want to make it up to you,” he said, letting his teeth show.

Son of a bitch. Still, Abbie had a poker face and she kept that firmly in place as she replied, “I told you before, I’m fine. I knew how it looked and my sister has done her best to keep out of trouble since.”

Danny nodded and said, “Yes, but I think…no, I know that I could have handled that better, so to make it up to you I want do something special.”

And the fury was snuffed out with the return of fear. What the hell was he up to? He got off his desk to go around it and took something from one of the drawers. It was a small brochure and a pair of tickets, one of which he handed to her. She read it over and felt her heart skip a beat. Oblivious, Danny continued, “I know you hang out with that Brit from the historical society so I guessed that you might enjoy something like this. I hear they have a new exhibit coming up with some stuff on loan from the British Museum and I was thinking, hey, maybe we should check it out.”

Abbie stared at the invitation and brochure. Despite the news report, Crane’s portrait was not the cover image. Instead the museum had selected a stack of bound notes purported to be Benedict Arnold’s personal notes and other correspondence. That that was not the centre of the report last night was proof of Crane’s reputation as a panty-dropper…that, or the museum knew that the general public could not give less of a shit about the old traitor. They did mention Crane’s portrait though, by way of _“Come see our exhibit of other famous Turncoats!”_

That actually stung and Abbie had to blink away a sudden and inexplicable flood of emotion. Then Danny cleared his throat and Abbie looked up at him and said, “Um….”

Danny’s hopeful expression actually faltered for a moment, and she quickly said, “Oh, yeah, sure. I would love to…wait, no, isn’t this kind of inappropriate now?”

Danny took a step back with his hands in the air, suddenly contrite. “Okay, okay, I know I deserve that after everything, but I’m just trying to be nice. I want us to get along. We work well together and I want to see this continue.”

Abbie would bet he did, especially since she was about ten percent sure some of the time that he just wanted to get back into her pants. Not happening after that little stunt, but still. She took a breath and offered him a smile. When he dropped his hands, she said, “Thank you very much. I would love to go. No reason we cannot be friends who work together. I know some of the guys go to games together with their families…um, Jenny’s not going to though.”

Danny dipped his head, still smiling and said, “Yeah, I know, I kind of expected as much.”

Abbie nodded, then stood up and said, “If there isn’t anything else…”

“No, no, you go ahead. And thank you,” he said, walking with her to the door.

Abbie offered him a smile and walked out. She kept it up until she was safely back in her office and had shut the door. Then she looked at the ticket again and scoffed. Bastard. But this was better. She had needed an alibi and to keep Danny’s nose out of it and now she could handle two birds with one stone. After all, how could she be involved in the theft of a painting she did not even know was on display when she had gone there with her boss/ex-boyfriend on his invitation?

She walked around to her desk, stuck the ticket into her handbag and started going through files. A few minutes later her phone rang, Crane calling about something untoward he and Jenny had gotten into because of Pandora—to think that Abbie would actually miss the Headless-goddamn-Horseman—and Abbie was up and out the door again, the invitation forgotten.

 

Coming to after being knocked out was always the worst, even more so when it was to blink open eyes into painful brightness and realise that you were in the hospital with a nasty tube down your throat. Thankfully, Abbie was in her own bedroom this time and no tubes in sight. She groaned and squeezed her eyes shut and then Crane said, “Pandora was right…you do not care about your life.”

Abbie stopped trying to settle into a position that would ease her headache and lay still. There was an undercurrent of emotion in Crane’s voice that Abbie rarely ever heard directed at her. He was furious.

She opened her eyes again, willing herself to bear the pain, and looked for him. Her fellow Witness was seated in a chair near her bed in a pair of bright red satin pyjamas, a wrist brace on one hand and butterfly bandage on his temple. He was also trying, and failing badly, to hide the fact that he was angry. It did not help that his next words were, “I know that the work we do is dangerous and may very well cost us our lives, but I should not have to remind you that we are merely into the _second_ tribulation.”

Abbie did not want to have this conversation. She was also in no position to move away from it, she could not even bring herself to speak. She tried, she opened her mouth and everything but her throat was dry and all she managed was a croak before Crane was there with a glass of water and a nice bendy straw. She drank deeply and gratefully and his expression softened somewhat. But then he said, “Do not leave me yet, Grace Abigail. The battle has only just begun. Do not go where….” He stopped himself and said, “You should rest. Forgive me, Miss Mills.”

Abbie opened her mouth again to say something but he was already on his feet and without another word, he turned and quietly left.

 

Abbie could not be blamed for forgetting all about the exhibit. First she had been laid up in bed and then, while she was only half-recovered, there had been another incident that required Witnessing. She had not gotten hurt this time but it had certainly extended her recovery time and swallowed up her sick days. Honestly, sometimes being a Witness was a pain in the ass.

But then the day before she was supposed to go back to work, Danny showed up at her house with a bouquet and that damn smile and a set of keys dangling from his fingers. Abbie, in a bathrobe and her pyjamas on her way to the kitchen with her coffee mug, lifted an eyebrow at him. He smiled wider and said, “You forgot.”

“She forgot what?” asked Crane from the living room sofa. He was supposed to be playing video games not eavesdropping. In fact, he was supposed to be “nursing her back to health”, his words, not playing video games. But the thought of Crane brought it all back and Abbie cleared her throat and said, “Oh, right, the museum.”

Danny gave her a quick once over and said, “I thought you might have recovered enough, seeing that you have to be back tomorrow so I came over for us to go today. But if you’re not….”

“Give me a minute,” Abbie said quickly. She turned at once to go and change. She needed to get Danny out of this house and fast before Crane saw or heard anything about the exhibit. It was probably too late given his insatiable curiosity but maybe Crane would take the hint and realise that this was not a trip he could tag along on. Abbie texted Jenny to find out if she had done anything about the painting but got no reply.

Crane started in on her the minute she stepped out of her room to go meet Danny. “Leftenant…” he began, paused to look at her, cleared his throat and said, “Leftenant, I know I am not your physician but I really must insist that you take every opportunity to rest.”

Abbie walked past him, replying as she went, “Yeah, been there, done that, and I think I’m due for some fresh air. You know, refresh the humours and all that.”

Crane scoffed behind her but said nothing more as they had arrived in the living room and Danny stood up to greet her. Danny whistled first though, gave Abbie a very appreciative sweeping look and said, “You still clean up very nice. You’re going to give that old curator a heart attack.”

That pinged an alarm in the back of Abbie’s mind but she ignored it in favour of replying, “Is that the way you guys greet each other on the way to the ball games too?”

“Curator?” asked Crane.

Abbie’s phone buzzed in her pocketbook but she ignored that too as she turned to Crane and said, “Yeah, we’re going to a museum. Listen, if Jenny calls, tell her I’m out and don’t bother me unless it’s the end of the world. And I hid that candy from you for your own good, so don’t go looking for it. I will know if you were in my room.”

Crane looked absolutely scandalised. He said, “Leftenant, I would never enter your room without your permission.”

“Hey, why does he call you that? What is that word? 'Lieutenant'? Why does he say it like that?” asked Danny.

Abbie decided to put an end to this before it got out of hand. She turned back to Danny and said, “Let’s go. See you later, Crane. Remember roommate, _boundaries_.”

“Leftenant,” said Crane again but Abbie did not reply as she let Danny lead her out of the house.

Danny waited until they were in the car and heading out of her street to ask, “Say, where does that guy work? This is the third time I’ve been over to your place in daylight hours and he’s there.”

“Get Ichabod Crane a job” would be at the top of Abbie’s to-do list if it was not for the whole “not legally allowed to work” thing. Too bad his expedition researching his roots had not led him to the discovery of a vast buried family fortune instead of some dinky tablet. At least he had managed to save up some cash doing odd jobs here and there while he was travelling but for the most part Abbie was definitely footing the bill. Abbie cleared her throat and said, “He works from home most days.”

“And you say that he used to be an Oxford professor? He’s not over here on tenure at some museum teaching History?” asked Danny.

Abbie tried to picture Crane teaching a class of bright-eyed but definitely half-asleep undergrads History, correcting their textbooks in every other paragraph, waving that damn finger around like a weapon and burst out laughing. She could not help herself. Any legit university would have shown him the door immediately…though there was probably a for-profit college somewhere that would not care.

“What’s so funny?” asked Danny.

Abbie sobered at once, though her eyes were wet and Danny was smiling too. She said, “Sorry, yeah, no he is not, but he did send in a few applications. Right now he’s just focussing on the Historical Society stuff and all that. So, about this exhibit, how did you hear about it?”

For a moment it looked as if Danny was going to ask another question about Crane but then he replied, “I have a friend who works there. Met while we were working the smuggling ring. They send invites from time to time and when I heard about the exhibit I remembered your roommate specialises in that era so I thought you might want to check it out.”

Abbie lifted an eyebrow, another warning ping in her brain and this time she did take some notice. Shit. “Me?” she asked, “and not Crane?”

Danny shrugged and said, “Well, you know, I thought he might have checked it out already. If that’s not really your thing though, maybe we could do something else.”

Abbie glanced over at him, caught the look she was expecting and said, “No, the exhibit is good. I’m still taking it easy. Don’t want to end up back in my sickbed again.”

Danny laughed and said, “Your loss. We could have driven up to Poughkeepsie, checked out the culinary university café. The students do good work there.”

It was not a bad idea. Abbie said, “Sure, maybe later.”

Abbie’s phone buzzed again in her pocketbook and this time she checked it. It was Jenny and the message made Abbie’s heart race. Dammit.

_“Painting 2 b displayed 4 first time 2day. Best chance. Keep ur boss away.”_

This was not good. Not with Danny knowing one of the bloody curators. Before she could even begin to word a message warning her sister, she got another text, this time from Crane.

_“Dear Miss Mills, I have been invited to a special exhibit at the Tarrytown Museum today by Miss Corinth. Perhaps we shall bump into each other. Sincerely, Ichabod Crane.”_

What the actual fuck?

She typed out a quick text to Jenny: “Abort. Crane heading there. Danny knows one of the curators. Need to focus on damage control.” She sent it, shoved her phone back into her purse and tried to focus on exuding an air of calm and control. Another buzz from her phone. As she pulled it out to check the message, from Crane, Danny asked, “What’s going on there? Do I need to confiscate that? Are you already planning your bailout?”

“Hmm?” asked Abbie, opening Crane’s message.

_“Miss Mills, is something amiss? Or did I receive that missive in error?”_

Fuck. No! Abbie checked the sent messages and her eyes went wide. She only just stopped herself from banging her head on the door when Danny asked, “Hey, Abbie, are you okay? Do you need me to pull over? Are you sick?”

No, she just felt that way. Abbie took a breath, shook her head and said, “No, no, I’m fine. Minor crisis, nothing to worry about.” She straightened in her seat and sent the same message to Jenny, checking this time to make sure it was the correct recipient. Then to Crane: “My mistake. Nothing to worry about.”

Abbie watched the message go then put her phone back in her purse. She was not going to answer it again, no matter what Crane sent. When she straightened and resettled though, it was to find Danny glancing at her, brow furrowed. She started laughing, as much to distract him as to get her thoughts in order and her mood under control and said, “All sorted. Between my sister and my roommate, I don’t know which is worse. Always getting into some kind of trouble. And then getting me in trouble with them.”

Danny laughed then and said, “Nah, I see you, Abbie. You’re a good sister. You’re a good person. Selfless. Best kind of person there is.”

Abbie shook her head and said, “I don’t know about all that. I can be plenty selfish. I—” She stopped herself when she recalled the last time she had been truly selfish and where that had gotten her. Jenny in an institution and the big sister who was supposed to protect her on a path to self-destruction. Yeah, no way was she sharing that. She cleared her throat and finished, “They’re just big puppies. Leave them alone for a minute and they’re chewing through my shoes, or in my sister’s case, wearing them.”

Danny laughed again and so they continued the drive over to Tarrytown in pleasant conversation. It was, Abbie had to admit, kind of nice to talk easily with Danny again. So, yeah, he could have handled the issue with the smugglers and Jenny better, but he was just doing his job. He was a good one and there were so few of those around.

Danny pulled into the parking lot and hopped out of his seat to go around the car to open Abbie’s door for her. She lifted an eyebrow and he grinned and said, “Just making sure no further harm comes to the patient. Don’t want your roommate biting my head off if I bring you back in worse condition than when you left.”

Abbie just rolled her eyes and slipped out of the car.

There was no long line in to view the exhibit, as expected, and of those there it was overwhelmingly the expected demographic: the elderly, school kids and, of course, one or two clear history buffs, if only judging by their choice of attire. Danny walked Abbie past the line though, waving at the security guard as they went and headed straight for the offices. Abbie caught sight of the Benjamin Franklin-re enactor, a Mr Richard Collins, who greeted Danny with a smile and warm handshake and Abbie with, “Oh, _this_ is Agent Mills. Well, Danny, you’re a lucky man. She’s a lovely one.”

Abbie turned to look at Danny, just waiting for the surely forthcoming explanation. He was too busy laughing with Mr Collins to notice though, and replied, “Ah, now, you know very well that is not what I said. Agent Mills and I are just colleagues here to see your exhibit.”

“Oh, yes, right, right, but say, have you heard about the painting? It’s been drawing quite the crowd of admirers,” said Mr Collins, turning to lead them away.

Danny twirled a finger at his ear and glanced at the heavens as if to say the old guy had gotten a few wires crossed and then replied, “Painting? Oh, yes, that Crane guy, I saw the news report.”

Abbie stopped cold. The two men continued walking ahead but she could not bring herself to move another step. They stopped and looked back at her, Mr Collins in confusion and Danny with a raised eyebrow. Abbie asked, “Crane guy?”

Danny, still smiling, said, “Oh yeah, you probably did not see the ad. There’s a painting of a Patriot who looks remarkably like your roommate, hell, he even has the same name.”

Abbie let her eyes go wide and willed herself to start walking again. Mr Collins said, “Is that so? Oh, you should have brought him along. Is he a descendant? We had heard that Captain Crane had married but records show the wife died much later than he, a Katrina Crane, formerly Van Tassel. There was nothing about any issue.”

And thank God for that. The museum had already sourced way more information than Abbie was comfortable with about Crane.

“Um, I don’t know…maybe on the British side of the family?” said Abbie.

Danny explained, “This guy’s a Brit, taught at Oxford. This Crane had other family?”

“Oh, yes, yes,” said Mr Collins. “An older brother who inherited the family fortune, as was the way of the time. His line disappeared into obscurity into the nineteenth century though. Good to see that some vestige of it still exists.”

“You could say that,” Abbie muttered.

Neither man heard her, still discussing the Crane family line, and then Abbie saw something that made her heart skip a beat. At long last, in the middle of a hallway just down from the entrance was the painting. 

Up close, the painting was huge. It was as if the painter had attempted to give the Crane family a life-sized memento of their second son. And though this Crane was somewhat younger than the man Abbie knew and lived with, he was clearly the same person. Worse, there were teen girls in front of it taking selfies. Oh joy. Making this painting disappear was going to be harder than she thought.

“Is it a good likeness?” asked Mr Collins.

Abbie did not answer. Danny said, “That’s the man. Wow. That’s crazy.”

Abbie glanced at him and noted the narrowed eyes, the slight furrow to his brow and the distance of his gaze. He was thinking. That was bad. Abbie looked around for a distraction and cursed her sister for failing to swipe the painting before the exhibit displayed it. Was it too much to ask for something to go right?

_“Oh, there you are Leftenant, I was just telling Miss Corinth that—”_

He stopped and Abbie closed her eyes. Dammit.

“Abbie?” asked Danny, actually sounding concerned.

Abbie opened her eyes and said, “Sorry, felt a little woozy there for a moment.”

“Oh my, is that…is that the guy? Oh you’re right Agent Reynolds, he does look a lot like the painting,” said Mr Collins.

Abbie looked at Crane. He was still standing with Zoe, who waved at her. Abbie offered her a small smile, more concerned about the way that Crane was staring at the painting. His mouth was still open but his eyes had actually gone a little misty. Then he closed his mouth and shifted his gaze to Abbie and it did not take two seconds for the mistiness to disappear and be replaced by one of suspicion.

Abbie turned to Mr Collins and said, “Mr Richard Collins, this is my friend, Ichabod Crane.”

The older man’s eyes went wide and he asked, “He even carries the same name?”

Crane glanced at the man as if seeing him for the first time, then straightened and said, “Ichabod Crane, at your service, Mr Collins. And this is my companion, Miss Zoe Corinth. I fear you have me at a disadvantage, what exactly is going on?”

Mr Collins replied, “This is our Turncoat Exhibit, Mr Crane.”

Crane’s expression blanked at the word and his gaze went cold. Crap. Abbie stepped into Crane’s line of sight to break his focus and said, “Both sides of the Revolutionary War. Celebrating those who joined the Patriots and shaming those who went with the Crown.”

Mr Collins turned to her, already protesting, “Well, now, Agent Mills that is not exactly the case—”

This guy clearly did not know what was good for him, which was shocking considering his apparent age. She continued over him, “Agent Reynolds here brought me along to see it because he knows the curator, if you’ll believe that, and what do I see when I get here, a big ol’ picture of your ancestor. And to think you were researching your family history and thought you would never find a record of him. Turns out all the information was in America all along. Did you know he worked with Washington?”

Crane still had not looked away from Mr Collins, who was, in turn, staring at Abbie. Abbie ignored him. The best she could do under the circumstances was lie them both out of trouble. Jenny was not exactly joking about the blacksite.

“Ichabod…?” asked Zoe, uncertainly. 

Crane finally snapped out of it and up went the goddamn finger. Abbie sighed. Well, at least he had not tried to bite the guy’s head off, but that finger was going to get it if it was not careful. Worse, Crane had the look that he usually made when getting into a really big rant. He took a breath and began, “First of all, do you really think that you—”

They were cut off by a boom that rattled the teeth in their jaws and filled the hall with smoke and screams. Someone grabbed Abbie and pushed her out of the way. Then there was another blast, another smoke bomb, and she heard a gun cock before Danny shout, “FBI, hold it right there! You chose the wrong building to break into!”

Mr Collins was repeating, “Oh my god, the exhibit. Oh my god, the exhibit!”

Abbie, who had no gun but had a very good idea of who was responsible for this, grabbed the arm of the person holding her back and said, “I think…I think I’m going to faint.”

Expecting Danny, she was stunned to hear Crane reply, “Leftenant, oh goodness, you’re not well…please don’t…we are in the middle of something.”

Well that something would have to wait. Abbie whispered a prayer for luck and let herself go. Someone caught her before she hit the floor—Crane, she knew the scent of her detergent—and then he called for Danny, “Agent Reynolds, the Leftenant requires your aid!”

Well now that was quite odd. If anything, Crane should have been over there trying to help Danny get the thieves. She did not hear any gunfire and Danny did not respond, but then Zoe was there gently waving the smoke away from her face and Crane called again, “Agent Reynolds, I cannot wake her! I fear a relapse!”

There was still no response, though there was still running and screaming. Then Danny was there saying, “They got away. I’ll call 911. You keep trying to wake her. I’m not losing my best agent today but if anything happens to her for sure those thieves are going be charged for it."

 

Hours later, Abbie sat with Jenny and Joe in the tunnels where they had twice held the Headless Horseman watching Crane examine his portrait. Abbie had been wrapped in a sweater and a blanket and given a cup of hot chocolate despite fervent insistence that she was well. Crane had blithely ignored all her protests and added a knit cap before letting her leave the house to check on the success of the operation. He and Abbie really needed to have another conversation about boundaries, and soon.

“So, Ichy, you just totally forgot this existed?” asked Jenny from her place next to her sister.

“Of course not, Miss Jenny. You know well that I have an eidetic memory. I can still recall to the very second the day we first met, what you wearing and how you smelled,” said Crane without turning back to look at her.

Jenny wrinkled her nose at this and Crane added, “Quite pleasant, with very little of that chemical stuff of which this era is so deeply fond.”

Jenny burst out laughing. She and Joe had been grinning like idiots since Abbie and Crane had arrived, high on the euphoria of a successful heist—in front of Abbie’s new boss even, take that—and more than a little pleased with the way things were going. Abbie was still waiting on Crane’s reaction. He had played along all right at the museum and then was too busy worrying over Abbie to say anything, but here, now, he could explode. Finally he turned away from the painting to say, “Thank you, Miss Jenny, and Master Corbin. I know this was quite a dangerous undertaking and I am most obliged to you both for attempting it.”

Jenny, bless her, actually blushed and said, “It was no trouble, Ichy. As much as we know how much it means for you to be acknowledged for your efforts, we could not just sit there and let you be called a ‘Turncoat’. That old crook just wanted to drum up publicity for his lame exhibit. Who the hell cares about Benedict Arnold’s papers anyway?”  
Abbie glanced at the table on which the documents in question were stored. Jenny and Joe had had to take some other more important things to keep attention away from the painting, and sure enough the newsreel had been going on and on about the papers. The painting, for now, was seemingly forgotten.

“We can’t keep it down here, you know,” said Joe, taking a swig of his beer. “The humidity would destroy it.”

Crane glanced at the painting again in alarm and Abbie said, “For now, in here, it should be fine. But yeah, we’ve had maintenance under here before, can’t risk an accidental discovery. Any ideas?”

Crane turned to her, puppy dog eyes firmly in place and began, “Miss Mills, perhaps—”

“No, Crane,” said Abbie, firmly, looking past him. “Danny might act like he bought our little act but I would not be surprised if I get more than a few pointed questions about today. Questions, I might add, I would not have had to answer if some people had gotten to it sooner.”

“Nope,” said Jenny, shaking her head. “If it had disappeared before there would be far more publicity. This works. And in a few days we’ll let the local PD ‘discover’ a few of the items and then the papers after a few weeks. I’ll move the other stuff out so they can’t detect where it’s been all the time if all that CSI junk is for real but you will have to work out what to do with the painting yourselves.”

Abbie glared at her, still ignoring Crane, but then he was in front of her on one knee and instead of the expected pleading, he drew her into his arms and whispered, “Thank you, Leftenant, for doing this.”

Abbie scoffed and tried to free herself, saying, “I did nothing. Jenny and Joe here did the heavy lifting, and it was Jenny’s idea.”

Instead of backing her up, her sister said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. How strong are the meds they have you on?”

Crane smiled, Abbie could feel it against her hair where his chin had come to rest and he said, “Whatever the means, thank you. I had not forgotten the painting but thought it simply lost to time, as many of these things sometimes go. You are ever resourceful, Miss Mills, in humbling me before the world and in helping me put together the scattered parts of myself. I do not think I would have made it this far or long in this strange new world without your assistance or your friendship.”

He held her for a beat again and then released her. Abbie refused to look at him, thoroughly embarrassed, but pulled the folds of her blanket closed again from where they had slipped after he had embraced her and said, “Yes, well, you still can’t take that into my house. I’m not going to jail. I will burn it first.”

“Oh, I was not suggesting that. Nor the Archives for that matter. I’ve always considered these things rather ostentatious and unnecessary. However, there is one place that I think it would be safest,” said Crane.

 

Two weeks later, Jenny informed Abbie that the package had been safely installed, sans terrible frame, in Crane’s tomb in his ancestral estate in Scotland. Abbie had been questioned, by Danny, curious to find out if there was a connection, and Crane too, but only informally and in a manner that was easy to dismiss. Jenny and Joe had also been spotted by multiple people around Sleepy Hollow the day of the crime so of course it could not have been them. Then the first objects, documents and small artefacts, resurfaced at the pawn shop that led to a bust that exposed a smuggling operation. Attention shifted and with it blame, helped considerably by the pawn shop owner’s refusal to talk. Better yet, during that same bust the lost Benedict Arnold papers were recovered.

Everyone forgot about the portrait of one handsome, young turncoat. It was kind of sad, really, and Crane lamented as much one night while he and Abbie sat watching the news of the recovery.

Abbie smiled and said, “You know why it had to be done, don’t you? I want to see your picture up there with the others too, like on Mt Rushmore, even if I don’t think we need to let your head get any bigger.”

He laughed, shook his head and said, “No, that would not do.”

Abbie poked him with her big toe. He grabbed her foot and pulled it onto his lap and after a moment she stretched the other foot out to make herself comfortable. She laughed when he pulled on her toes and she said, “I know it sucks. I actually think it would wonderful for children to learn about the adventures of the fierce and courageous Ichabod Crane, but not yet.”

Crane gave a brief nod and turning to look her in the eyes, said, “Contrary to what you have come to believe, Leftenant. I know why it had to be done. It does not make it any easier, but that is the life that I signed up for. A spy is never supposed to be recognised for his efforts. It is enough that my friends do.”

Shit, Abbie thought that she was going to cry. Or something, Crane had a really annoying habit of tugging on her emotions until they welled up and threatened to overwhelm her. So to distract herself, she pulled her foot back, kicked him lightly and said, “And don’t you ever forget it.”


End file.
